


Fool

by zigostia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Break Up, Hurt/Comfort, John is a Bit Not Good, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 14:40:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14167110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zigostia/pseuds/zigostia
Summary: “We need to talk."





	Fool

“We need to talk.”

Sherlock barely glanced up from his laptop. “Alright.”

“No, Sherlock.” John’s voice was soft, coaxing, like Sherlock was a small wounded animal. “I mean, we need to talk.”

“I heard you perfectly well the first time.”

_“Sherlock.”_

Sherlock finished typing something, then looked up with a hint of irritation. “Fine. I’m looking at you. Talk.”

John’s voice sounded strained. “Right. OK.” He shifted back and forth on the balls of his feet, then squared his shoulders.

“I think we should break up.”

Sherlock, who had been typing without looking at the keyboard, stopped.

“Before you say anything,” John rushed out, “I want to make this clear.” He took a step forward, locking eyes with Sherlock, his gaze full of intent. “I’ve been thinking about this a lot. You and I, Sherlock… We won’t work.” He paused, and, after realizing Sherlock wasn’t going to speak up, continued. “I’ve tried, Sherlock, I’ve really tried. But I can’t keep doing this.” His voice softened even more. “I’m so sorry, Sherlock. You of all people should understand. I found another flat across London. I’m packing my stuff tonight and moving out tomorrow morning.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling hard. “Please understand.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything. John looked up to see him staring—not at John, but rather through him instead. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock stood up, movements mechanical. He took slow, deliberate steps towards John until they were mere metres from each other.

“Why are you doing this?” he demanded, his voice quiet and low. “This is a joke, isn’t it?”

John immediately shook his head. “I’m so sorry,” he said again.

“John.” Sherlock reached out a hand, but John flinched away. Sherlock withdrew it in a sudden, jerky gesture.

John’s voice was thick. “I just can’t do this anymore.” He looked up. His eyes were shining. “I don’t love you, Sherlock.”

“You’re lying,” Sherlock said, “you are.”

John’s face was twisted, lips tight. “I think—after Mary, Sherlock. I was—I was heartbroken. I had my other half torn away from me, and I was desperate. You were just—just a replacement. But I can’t do it anymore.” His head low, his shoulders hunched. His face burning with shame. “I’m horrible for making you ever think I was in love with you. I can’t keep lying to you anymore.”

There was a moment where neither of them spoke, the silence only interrupted by John’s shuddering breaths.

“No,” Sherlock said. “No, that’s not true.” He reached out a hand to touch John’s cheek. It hesitated in mid-air before dropping, hanging limply at his side. “Why are you doing this?”

“I told you already.” John’s voice was muffled, his hands covering his face. “I don’t love you, Sherlock. You’re not Mary. You can never be her. I can’t stand it, Sherlock, I can’t.”

“No,” Sherlock said again, finding himself unable to say anything else. His face felt strangely numb. “I recognize the signs of infatuation. You had them all.”

“I was pretending you were her,” John whispered.

“John,” Sherlock said, after another long pause. “Look at me.”

John didn’t move.

“Please, John,” Sherlock said, unable to keep the tremor from his voice. “For me.”

John shook his head. “I’m sorry, Sherlock.” He turned away. “I’m leaving tomorrow. You won’t be able to stop me.”

“I will.” Sherlock’s voice suddenly sharpened, hardened with resolve. “What is it you want from me? I’ll do it, John. I’ll be exactly what you want.”

John made a desperate noise in his throat, a grotesque version of a laugh. “Nothing, Sherlock,” he said, voice racked. “I don’t want you. We just don’t work, Sherlock. Not us.”

Sherlock found his fingers shaking, trembling against where they rested against his thighs. “John.” He swallowed hard, his throat jumping. “Please stay.”

“I’m sorry,” John said.

“Don’t leave.” Sherlock wasn’t completely aware of what he was saying, the words tumbling out. “Don’t leave me, John. I won’t stand it if you leave. I’ll go mad.”

John didn’t turn, didn’t speak, didn’t move.

Sherlock felt as though he was atop a tall building in the middle of a hurricane, the floor rocking beneath his feet. He opened his mouth and found no more words, the faucet running dry.

Wrong, wrong, wrong. _Stupid stupid stupid stupid_ STUPID, John was never in love with him, it was Mary, it was always Mary, never him (a replacement) he never wanted Sherlock, never ever ever, not before and not after and certainly not now, now he’s leaving and it should be a relief but then why did he feel like he was being twisted into shreds, the air a thousand tons against his chest, suffocating, leaving him gasping for air…

“Oh, god,” John was saying, over and over again. He had his arms around Sherlock’s shaking shoulders, a hand stroking his hair. “Oh, god, Sherlock.”

Sherlock put his hands against John’s chest and pushed weakly. “No,” he said, because this wasn’t mercy, this was elongating the torture, extending it only for it to hurt so much worse in the detonation thereafter, but his body ignored his commands and burrowed itself into John’s arms, warm and familiar and all a lie.

“Sherlock,” John said, something in his tone different in a way that wormed through the thick shroud of murkiness and haze. “Sherlock, what day is it?”

Sherlock took several fast, deep breaths, willing himself not to shatter again. “April first,” he said.

“Ye—e—es,” John said. He sounded vaguely guilty. “And?”

Sherlock pulled away from John’s arms. He said in a wobbly, accusing tone, “Forgive me if I don’t see the importance of this at the moment.”

“Sherlock,” John pressed on, “what day is April first?”

Sherlock sniffled quietly. “This year it’s Easter Sunday.”

“Something else.”

Distantly wondering if John had short-term memory loss, Sherlock searched his files half-heartedly. “The Assyrian New Year,” he tried. “Edible Book Day. Same-sex marriage was legalized in the Netherlands in 2001.”

“Right,” John said. “Yeah, well, it’s also April Fool’s Day.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “What’s that?”

John looked like he’d rather be in a pit of vipers than where he was currently standing. He took a few steps back, hands twisting together in front of him. “Well,” he said slowly, “it’s a day where people pull pranks on each other.”

Sherlock blinked.

John opened his mouth to say something and then shut it again.

Sherlock drew in a deep breath—

Surged forward—

John flinched but stood his ground, because he deserved whatever he was getting—

In a few short strides, Sherlock closed the distance between them and yanked John into a kiss.

John made a surprised noise and then melted, threading a hand through Sherlock’s hair and tugging through the curls, fiercely reciprocating.

Without breaking the contact, Sherlock shoved John’s chest with one hand. They stumbled until John’s back hit the wall. Sherlock pushed him up against it and kissed him hard, teeth and tongue and desperation. John gasped and clutched at Sherlock’s shirt, rumpling it.

Sherlock drew back, staying close enough that their lips brushed together. “I’ve never known you to be so cruel,” he murmured, breath hot against John’s lips.

John’s face was flushed. He was breathing hard. “You faked your death for two years and then tricked me into thinking we would die in a subway carriage.”

Sherlock’s voice was nothing but a bass-deep rumble, vibrating down John’s spine. “So we’re even?”

John’s voice was breathy. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”

“You went too far,” Sherlock agreed. He leaned over and nipped at John’s earlobe. “Got any idea how to make it up?”

“One,” John said, and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist.

-+-+-+-

“But, really, though,” John said.

Sherlock made a lazy, lackadaisical hum, tucked in John’s arms, his body warm and pliant.

“Hey. Sherlock. This is important.” John’s voice carried a gentle urgency. “It was meant to be a joke.”

Sherlock huffed against John’s skin. “Not a very good one.”

“No,” John agreed, kissing the top of Sherlock’s head. “I didn’t mean to take it so far. I got carried away.”

Sherlock twisted his head so that he was looking at John. “You didn’t mean it, though—any of it?”

“God, Sherlock.” John’s arms tightened around him. “I can’t believe you actually have to ask.”

“Hmph.”

John sighed. “I love you, Sherlock. Always. I loved Mary, of course, but you—it’s you, Sherlock. It’s always been you. Forever.”

“Forever is a weighty word,” Sherlock mumbled.

“I know,” John replied.

It was a feeling Sherlock had yet to grow used to, but one he welcomed fully. A surge of warmth in his chest, a sunburst of emotion. It made him feel vulnerable, yet simultaneously safe. Soft. Sweet.

Curious.

“You’re an excellent actor,” Sherlock commented. “You had me convinced.” He felt the ghost of the pain flash across his chest and burrowed closer to John, kissing his collarbone.

“Mixed compliment.” John shifted so that Sherlock could rest his head more comfortably on his chest. “I’m really sorry. Forgive and forget?”

“First,” Sherlock said, “never do that again.”

“Never,” John promised. “Swear to god.”

“Next,” Sherlock said, “I won’t be deleting this.”

John looked abashed. “Sherlock, I swear, I didn’t—”

“I’ll keep it filed away,” Sherlock continued, “as a reminder.” He paused. “Like Norbury.”

“Norbury,” John said carefully. “I think I’m alright with that.” He looked to Sherlock, a slight smile twitching at his lips. “Might make you think twice the next time you decide to blow up the kitchen.”

“Once!”

“Or steal my jumpers.”

“… Four times.”

“Or decide to borrow my laptop without permission.”

“I can still blow up the kitchen, you know,” Sherlock muttered.

John laughed. Absently, he brushed back Sherlock’s hair from his forehead. “We shouldn’t joke about this,” he said.

“We shouldn’t joke about a lot of things.”

“Look at us. We’re perfect for each other.”

Sherlock hummed happily and leaned up to kiss John again.

“Oh, and. Just one more thing,” Sherlock said after they parted. “Pulling pranks on others, you said?”

“Yeah,” John said slowly.

Sherlock smiled. “The day’s not over yet.”

The realization dawned. “Who do you—”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said immediately.

They looked at each other and grinned.

**Author's Note:**

> You didn't think I'd actually make them break up, right?


End file.
